


Help Wanted

by ShitpostingfromtheBarricade



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Don't copy to another site, F/F, Get-Together Fic, Useless Lesbians, drama-free fluff, eponine pov, just the right amount of pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-27
Updated: 2019-03-27
Packaged: 2019-12-25 06:27:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18255617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShitpostingfromtheBarricade/pseuds/ShitpostingfromtheBarricade
Summary: Éponine loves having her hair played with, and Cosette doesn't seem to mind doing it.(the fic that wasn't supposed to be a 5+1 but kind of accidentally became one anyway)Warnings:none





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you sooooooo much to [PieceOfCait](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PieceOfCait/pseuds/PieceOfCait) not only for beta-ing this for me but also for helping me finally bust out of my writer's block (and tolerate that I've been bouncing between four or five fics).
> 
> Also, a big thanks to everyone else who's been so supportive over the past several weeks as I've been suffering through trying to finally finish this. (I started it in January or earlier, and I just couldn't write it right.)
> 
> The first chapter is the full and complete story, the second chapter is just a deleted scene.

“Okay, done,” Grantaire grunts, standing and letting the hair fall from his hands.

Éponine groans. “Do you have to be?”

“I have class in like, twenty minutes.”

“Tardiness has never stopped you before,” she counters, arching an eyebrow.

“And I’m tap-dancing on my TA’s last nerve with that kind of record already, so it’s all the more important that I don’t come late again, jazz hands blazing.”

Éponine rolls her eyes, smiling. “All right, Loser. Get out of here.”

“Find some cute girl to do it for you instead,” he winks, gathering his things.

“Oh yeah, let me just take out a section in the paper.”

Grantaire shrugs, slinging his pack over his shoulder and starting for the door. “Wouldn’t be the weirdest ad out there.”

“Also wouldn’t exactly inspire the kind of response I want,” she responds dryly, throwing a pillow toward him that he easily dodges.

“It’d inspire _a_ response, which is more than you’ve had in months.”

Éponine grunts. “We need more throw pillows.”

“Rookie mistake. Though I don’t think they’re called ‘throw pillows’ with literal throwing in mind.”

“I’m an innovator. And anyway, while we’re on the topic of dead bedrooms, how’s the newspaper section working out with your hot TA?”

“Bye Éponine.”

“Love ya, R.”

The door is pulled shut behind her roommate, and it’s nearly a full minute before Éponine can talk herself into standing to retrieve the pillow. She tosses it back on the sofa before admiring her hair in the mirror. Grantaire’s done a simple French braid this time—very practical compared to some of the previous styles he’s left her with.

She drops back onto the couch, allowing her lungs to deflate entirely before she breathes in again. Éponine briefly debates taking down her hair just to feel the tines of the comb against her scalp again, but that somehow seems more pathetic than the fact that she enjoys it so much in the first place. 

She huffs again, pulling out her phone.

Éponine never posts to Instagram, but Courfeyrac does constantly. She scrolls past four of his posts before one belonging to someone else appears—Montparnasse posting some moody grayscale photo that Éponine supposes is intended to be deep. She continues scrolling, already anticipating an impending passive-aggressive text about not liking his post. _Whatever._

Several more mindnumbing minutes of scrolling leads her to a picture that brings her pause. It’s Cosette on some sort of rustic board-and-rope swing, laughing on the backswing. Éponine thinks it should come across as basic or pretentious, but instead it’s adorable. Her thumb hovers over the photo for a beat before she swipes to close the app with a sigh.

She should move to start (reheat) dinner, but instead she opens Twitter. Posting to Twitter feels like shouting off a porch with a megaphone, Éponine’s spiritual and preferred method of communication. Her feed is mostly cluttered with an argument between Enjolras and whoever the politician of the day is. It’s punctuated with periodic tongue-in-cheek posts from Grantaire’s morning in retail and Combeferre announcing space facts into the void (a very appreciative void, if the retweets are anything to judge by).

Her and Grantaire’s conversation is still buzzing in her head, and she taps to make a post, pausing a moment to debate if she really wants to. She has friends as mutuals, of course—Grantaire, Montparnasse, the members of Les Amis—but most of her followers are randos who are bizarrely amused by her dry sense of humor. She contemplates the post for several more seconds before shrugging. Fuck it.

 

 **Ép Off** (@ÉptimusPrime)  
hi yeah if any pretty girls want to come play w my hair 2-5 x/week for the rest of my life i am now accepting applications

 

She turns off the phone screen as she stands, placing it on the coffee table in favor of attending to her empty stomach. 

 

Thirty minutes and a failed attempt at reviving some overripe lasagna later, Éponine is tucked into the corner of the sofa finishing the last greasy bites of an oddly addicting microwave burger. She’s sucking the last of the leftover cheese from her fingertips when she reaches over to check her phone, pulling a pillow into her chest in the same motion. Predictably, there’s a text from Montparnasse informing her that he saw her post on Twitter (subtext: that she hasn’t liked his IG photo) that she ignores for now. 

She looks up as the door opens.

“Kicked out again?”

“ _Au contraire_ , class was cancelled. Would’ve been nice to know before I left. Guess there’s some sort of rally going on that the TA’s leading? We get extra credit if we go.”

“Which naturally means you’re skipping it.”

“Naturally,” Grantaire confirms, moving toward the kitchen. “You know how I feel about extra credit.”

“Doesn’t mean you can’t use it,” Éponine responds, rolling her eyes and resting her chin on the pillow. “Lasagna didn’t work out.”

“I can see that,” the man remarks, examining the contents of their trash before letting the lid fall shut. “Microwave burgers?”

“Microwave burgers.”

Grantaire hums as he bustles around the kitchen. Something about it feels very domestic and comforting, and Éponine lets her eyes fall shut with the pillow still hugged to her chest.

“I saw you took my advice to Twitter. Clearly a more savory crowd there.”

Éponine grunts, eyes still closed and words sleepy as she hugs the cushion closer to her chest. “I’m armed and dangerous.”

“I know you are,” he responds, and Éponine allows his chuckle to lull her to sleep.

 

-

 

“Hey Éponine!”

“Cosette!” she responds, a little taken aback at the woman’s presence in her doorway. It’s not that Éponine was expecting someone else, but she certainly wasn’t expecting Cosette. “What’re you doing here?” 

“I just finished watching a tutorial for this hairstyle I saw on Game of Thrones, and Grantaire said you were in.” Cosette holds up a kit for Éponine to see.

This makes sense: Grantaire and Cosette grew up next-door to one another, and their relationship is closer to that of siblings than simple friends. “Was Jehan busy?” Éponine steps aside, allowing the curly-haired woman to step in past her. 

“They’re wonderful, but they aren’t always the most accessible,” the woman responds apologetically.

Éponine nods in understanding: apparently Jehan is the only person worse about responding than her.

“Well, R probably won’t be back anytime soon, he just left for his shift.” Éponine herself is in her pajamas and was about to go to bed for the night; she has an early shift tomorrow, and it’s already half-past ten.

“He had mentioned that you might be open to being my test subject?”

Of course he did. “Oh, well I…” With anyone else it’d be easy enough to tell them to fuck off and get out, or at least let them sleep on the couch until a more reasonable hour. But it’s Cosette, and the woman’s face is already falling in a way that physically hurts Éponine to see, and Grantaire hasn’t had time to play with her hair in nearly two weeks. “Okay. But I have to be up early.”

The delight on Cosette’s face would make up for a week of sleep-deprived early shifts.

Éponine goes to fetch her hairbrush and comb, already taking down her ponytail as she goes. She passes the brush through her hair several times on her way back to the living room to get it settled for the woman. On return, she sees that Cosette has the coffee table pulled up flush with the couch, an assortment of tools lined up professionally across the tabletop, and a space cleared on the floor in front of her for Éponine to kneel.

She does so without being told, wordlessly passing her comb and brush to the woman. Tired as she is, it takes conscious effort not to purr into the gentle feel of the brush pulling through her hair, and then again into the comb’s gentle tugs. By the time Cosette is separating and clipping hair off into portions, Éponine is dangerously close to nodding off, and she tells Cosette as much.

“You can, if you’d like. I’m the one infringing on your sleep time.”

Éponine only barely resists the urge to turn around and look at the girl. “Pretty sure that falls under the category of ‘rude as fuck’? I’d rather not.”

Cosette snorts. “Suit yourself. Makes no difference to me, though, and you did say you have an early start ahead of you tomorrow.”

Éponine tries and fails to stifle a yawn. “That I did,” she acquiesces. 

They sit like that in silence for several more—minutes? Hours?? Seconds??? Éponine had taken off her watch for the night long before Cosette arrived—and has the audacity to think she might actually be able to stay awake long enough to see Cosette off, until Cosette begins humming.

It’s not a song Éponine’s ever heard before, and it pitches in a way that should be offputting or eerie. Instead Éponine finds herself leaning into the tune, matching her breathing to the steady sound of Cosette’s voice.

She doesn’t realize she’s fallen asleep until Cosette is nudging her awake. “Hey, hey Ép. You should get to bed.”

Éponine stirs bleerily, digging the heel of her palm into one eye as she yawns. “Cosette? What time is it?”

The woman chuckles as she helps Éponine to her feet. It’s a beautiful sound, wrapping around her like satin and velvet. “Don’t worry about it. Your alarm is set already, right?”

“Mm? Mmm.” Éponine is vaguely aware that Cosette is still in the room as she climbs under her covers. “You should stay.”

The woman laughs again, and Éponine thinks she could curl up and fall asleep in the sound. “I need to get to bed, Eponine .”

An irrational part of her brain tells her be to invite the woman to share with her, but a much stronger force is already dragging her eyes shut and pulling her deep into slumber.

 

-

 

“Jehan,” Éponine hisses, “is there a reason this chicken still has its head?”

Jehan looks up from their ministrations at the stove and over at the carcass in Éponine’s hand. “The Thai woman who tends to them offered to butcher it,” they shrug. “I wasn’t about to tell her what to do.”

Éponine glances over at Combeferre for moral support, but he shrugs and continues working the ball of dough in front of him. She sighs, reaching for the drawer she knows contains a cleaver. As much as she appreciates the concept using ingredients sourced exclusively from the community garden to cook the food for the fundraiser, the reality of the procedure is not so glamorous.

She begins the process of carving the bird, setting aside the spine, wings, and thighs for the soup and placing the the other parts in a bowl to roast for eventual sandwiches. She’s about to toss the head and feet in the garbage when a yelp stops her.

“No!” Jehan cries. “Omseen says those are the most flavorful parts!”

Éponine raises her eyebrows at them, processing their words with only a little exasperation. “Fine. But they’re getting strained out before we make the soup.” 

 

“Enjolras, I’m saying this because I love you: if you don’t get out of the kitchen in the next fifteen seconds, I think Éponine might actually kill you.”

Cosette probably intended to exaggerate, but it’s almost definitely by less breadth than she realizes: since Enjolras’s arrival ten minutes ago from his class, he has double-checked with every person at least twice if there’s anything that he can be doing, and Éponine is one more ask away from suggesting that he find a foot to shove up his ass.

Behind her, she hears Enjolras huff. “I don’t want to just sit around doing nothing while all of you are working.”

Éponine (and everyone else in the apartment) have all been made aware exactly how little Enjolras wants this: upon collectively discovering the man’s tomato allergy and, by extension, his inability to partake in Bahorel and Courfeyrac’s sandwich-assembly process, the man had devolved from ‘handling himself with grace’ to ‘caged tiger’ in mere minutes. Cosette’s task is all but finished as she diligently pipes devilled egg filling into what must be hundreds of egg whites, and there simply isn’t the counter space for Combeferre’s bread-making operation to expand for a second person.

(There’s also the painful reality of Enjolras’s cooking skills to consider.)

“Does someone wanna run out and buy Shere Khan over here some rubber gloves so he can stop panicking?”

“I am not pan—”

“No need!” Jehan interrupts. “The ratatouille should be done in another couple of minutes, and Enjolras can help ladle that into our soup containers when it is! And—oh, Éponine, the stock looks about done!”

“Okay, cool, gimme a minute,” she responds. She finishes chopping the onion in front of her, turning to the sink to move the pot, sieve, and cheesecloth in place.

“I can take care of that,” she hears Enjolras volunteer, and before she can reject the offer she hears Jehan’s aborted cry.

“Enjolras, fucking Christ!” she exclaims, barely managing to catch the handles of the pot over the man’s hands. “It’s a giant pot of boiling liquid, you can’t just go swinging it around like that! _Christ_.”

“I didn’t realize—” he stutters, face likely red in equal parts from embarrassment, exertion, and the heat of the stock.

“Can someone put the strainer in place? Now?” she grunts. She watches Jehan hurry over to the sink, cursing Thursday leg days as her muscles cry out in protest.

As if the situation wasn’t bad enough already, she sees her hair slipping out from the constraints of her abused hairband and falling over her shoulder. The last thing she needs today is a chicken broth rinse and a pot of unusable stock. 

“Uh, hair? Please? Somebody?”

Combeferre looks helplessly at his dough-covered hands, and Courfeyrac and Bahorel are too far away to be of any help.

“I’ve got it!” 

Éponine feels rather than sees Cosette’s nimble fingers pulling her hair back, and even as Jehan announces that the strainer is in place, her hair remains held in place until Éponine’s hands are free at last.

Courfeyrac stands, clapping his hands together. “Well,” he says exuberantly, “I think this is the perfect time for a break.”

Enjolras looks to the man. “But the ratatouille—”

“Will still be there in fifteen minutes,” Courfeyrac responds firmly. “Give it time to rest.” 

Éponine is already moving into the living room, throwing herself over the unoccupied couch as Courfeyrac and Bahorel relocate their sandwich assembly line to the breakfast bar to make room for everyone. 

“I think your hairband may be done for,” Cosette observes, amusement teasing at the corners of her mouth.

Éponine scowls, grabbing a pillow and pulling it to her face. “The final holdout in a hairband genocide.” She slides the pillow down to her stomach to see Cosette’s face twisted with incredulity. 

“That was your last hairband? In your entire apartment?”

Éponine thinks. “We might still have that rubberband ball somewhere, if ‘Bossuet and The Boys’ haven’t started their ridiculous rubberband band thing yet.”

“‘The Rubber Band’ is a concept born of genius,” Courfeyrac counters, piling five decorative pillows and a blanket into a nest around him. 

For some reason, Courfeyrac’s addition has not resolved the look of absolute horror on Cosette’s face. “Well that just won’t do. Sit down, I’m fixing your hair.”

Éponine looks up at the woman from where she lays sprawled on the couch for a long moment before sighing, planting her feet on the ground and placing the pillow in her hands where she normally kneels. Her brush is still on the end table from the last time Cosette came over, and the woman picks it up now and begins running it through Éponine’s hair.

It’s a good call: Éponine feels all of the tension and irritation draining out of her body at the feel of the bristles against her scalp, and when Enjolras finally comes over to apologize she doesn’t even deliver the snide comment she’d calculated while debating allowing Enjolras to dump her hard work all over himself. Cosette is humming away, something bouncy and light-hearted that leaves Éponine smiling.

“Not to cause alarm,” Combeferre calls from the kitchen, “but did someone move the stock pot from the sink already?” 

All eyes fall on Jehan, perched on the sofa where they nurse a chicken foot. The poet’s eyes go wide as they look in horror toward the empty pot sat beside the sink where Éponine had left it before Enjolras’s contribution. "Um."

Enjolras breaks the silence. “So all of the—”

“Yes.”

“Down the—”

“I’m afraid so,” Combeferre confirms.

The living room is silent, devoid of movement but for Cosette’s continued ministrations with Éponine’s hair. 

“So Éponine,” Bahorel says at last, “what are your feelings on borscht?”

“Turns my kitchen into a crime scene.”

There’s a beat. “Is that a dealbreaker?”

“Not in the least; apple cider vinegar should be in the pantry.” 

 

-

 

The world is shit. The weather is shit. Public transit is shit. The legal system is shit. Lawyers are shit. Foster care fucking red tape-ass bullshit is _especially_ shit. 

Éponine is barely holding herself together by the time she’s stomping crap off of her boots onto the welcome mat that she and Grantaire had found so amusing two years ago. However they may have felt about it then, it now serves handsomely as an outlet for her rage. She slams the door open, fucking _daring_ her neighbors to file a noise complaint while she’s in this kind of mood, and storms in.

For her pride’s sake, Éponine pretends that her heart doesn’t break further to see Cosette startle at her violent entrance. As she slings her rain-soaked jacket off and leaves it in the floor in a puddle behind her, she hears Cosette calling after her. It’s probably something kind and well-intended—it’s fucking Cosette, that’s what she does. Cosette makes you feel better about shit and approaches everything with a fucking smile, and the world wouldn’t fucking dare pulling one over on the veritable angel. 

Goddammit.

In the mirror, Éponine can see that her hair’s a Goddamned mess, which is nothing less than she’d expected. She knocks over a ceramic toothbrush holder that almost certainly breaks on hitting the ground, a plastic cup, and a decorative soap dish that she’d bought one day just because she fucking could before her hand finally finds the handle of her hairbrush. She immediately begins yanking it through her hair.

 _Fuck._ Why is she like this? It’s not fair. And it’s not fair to Cosette that she’s like this. She just. Éponine just needs a minute to gather herself. Five minutes would be better, but Cosette’s already on the couch because Éponine is fucking _late_ and can’t do fucking _anything_ right. 

The pain of the repetitive snagging of the brush through her hair almost makes her feel better, giving into the rage that she feels and keeping her from that precipice of tears that looms so near.

“-ponine, _Éponine!_ ”

The brush is being pulled out of her grasp by the time she registers that her name is being said, and she whips around to see Cosette looking up at her, fury and concern writ into her features.

“Éponine,” the woman repeats, more gently. “Here, come out to the sofa, let me get that for you.”

Cosette takes her hand and leads her out of the bathroom, and the tenderness of the action saps the rage from Éponine, leaving her feeling drained and broken. At the sofa, Cosette sits in her normal spot and motions for Éponine to assume her usual position as well; she’s not in any particular state to argue.

She grabs one of the throw pillows as she sits, pulling her legs to her chest. Éponine immediately realizes that this is an asshole-position to sit in, holding her head a full half meter further from Cosette than when she kneels. Before she can attempt an apology (speaking doesn’t seem like a strong option right now) or change her posture, she feels a heavy, warm weight around her—the quilt Bossuet, Musichetta, and Joly had made her and Grantaire as a moving-in present, she realizes—and her hair is being gently tugged out from under the protective layer. 

As Cosette begins to pull the brush through Éponine’s hair (much more kindly than Éponine had a minute before), the woman hums a strain that resonates deeply in her soul, and her remaining reserves crumble.

Éponine cries. She hasn’t cried like this in years, and once she starts she can’t stop. She cries for her sister and brother. She cries for the wage gap. She cries for the metro car that was full and the shitty weather and the toothbrush holder she needs to replace and her empty stomach and herself. 

And in this space in time, in this moment set apart from the rest of the world where Cosette is humming and playing with her hair and Éponine is wrapped up and safe and doesn’t have to explain anything, the world feels a little less shitty.

 

-

 

“I understand what you’re saying, I’m just telling you it’s wrong.” Éponine raises her eyebrow defiantly as Enjolras huffs. 

He takes a deep breath before he tries again. “What am I saying that’s so incorrect?”

“Look, you’re a great speaker—no one who’s ever heard you can deny it—but also, no one at a women’s rights rally gives a shit about a man’s opinion, regardless of how informed he may be. If something opens up at the last second, you'll definitely be on a sub list, but until then those spots should be reserved and available for actual women.”

She leaves him to think on that as she checks her texts.

 

[12.36] **Cosette:** Hey. :) :) :)  
[12.36] **Cosette:** You free? :D  
[12.37] **Cosette:** I found a new tutorial ;D ;D ;D

 

“You mind if Cosette comes over?”

Enjolras considers the question before speaking. “I don’t see why not. If anything, she’ll only offer another valuable voice in the planning.”

 

[12.38] **Éponine:** k  
[12.39] **Cosette:** ok :) on my way!! :D :D

 

Éponine and Enjolras have all of the speakers but the second and penultimate slots figured out by the time the knock comes at the door.

“It’s unlocked,” Éponine calls, tapping her pen against her teeth as she considers the list of names in her notebook. On the other end of the couch, Enjolras’s eyes are narrowed on a spreadsheet of first, second, and third choices for every time slot. “Hey Cosette.”

“Hi,” Cosette beams, shutting the door behind her. “How are you?” 

“Not so bad.”

Cosette’s eyes fall on her normal space on the couch—the space Enjolras currently occupies. 

“A’ight Enj, up.” Éponine removes her legs from where they’ve been splayed across the couch, knocking several throw pillows to the floor and nudging him before she plants them on the floor to stand.

Enjolras looks up, brows furrowed. “Why?”

“You’re in Cosette’s spot.” Éponine nods to the space she was just occupying. “Move.”

Enjolras groans and rolls his eyes as he slides to the other end of the couch. Cosette settles in, and Éponine thinks she detects a hint of smugness in the woman’s face as she begins laying out her kit. 

Éponine starts for the bathroom. “What is it today? Do I get to be a pretty pretty princess again?”

“Of a warrior tribe, maybe,” the woman responds, grin in her voice. “I fell down a rabbithole of Celtic hairstyles, and I have big plans for you and R.”

“R hasn’t poked his head out yet today. He had the redeye last night, not sure you’ll see him for a few more hours yet. Or if he’ll be up for sitting around and having his hair played with.”

“Ah, but you forget that he treasures me and the whole of my existence.”

“That is true. We’ll see how he feels if he’s up before you’re out.” Éponine puts her hairbrush and comb on the arm of the couch before lowering herself, pulling one of the pillows over to kneel on.

Cosette combs Éponine’s hair in comfortable silence before addressing Enjolras.

“So, what has your problem student been up to this week?”

Éponine hears a long hiss of air followed by the close of a laptop. 

“Have you ever once, in your entire life, met someone who can find issue with The Rights of Man?”

“Can’t say I’ve ever asked,” Cosette responds.

“He can! An entire hour of class, derailed by his ridiculous tear-down.”

“It takes two dance,” Cosette points out.

“But he was _wrong_ ,” Enjolras insists.

Éponine listens to their comfortable banter in silence. This is a side of Enjolras she never sees: when she and he interact there is always a definitive goal that they are working toward. They don’t stray into personal topics. Even among his closest friends, she rarely witnesses him let down his guard the way he does with Cosette now.

“Enjolras just has a crush,” Cosette informs Éponine, dropping another braid and picking out a new section.

“I don’t,” Enjolras huffs.

“Sounds like something someone with a crush would say,” Éponine agrees, in no small part because it’s fun to egg the man on.

(But also because it’s plainly true.)

“I don’t. And even if I did—which I don’t—”

“Do,” Cosette whispers.

“—it would be unethical for me to act on it. And it would make no sense: we don’t agree on anything. It’d be like if you two were to date.”

Éponine doesn’t even try to hide her flabbergasted expression. Before she can challenge him, she hears Cosette speaking up.

“Éponine and I agree about plenty.”

“It would take an absolute monster not to get on with Cosette.”

“Different natures and interests don’t constitute incompatibility.”

“Have you ever actually seen us around one another?”

“And another thing—" 

“Mornin’ to you too,” she hears Grantaire groggily greet, interrupting the other woman’s heated defense.

Cosette, in her apparent passion over her and Éponine’s hypothetical compatibility, has let go of the latter’s hair, freeing Éponine to watch her roommate’s bleary entrance into the kitchen. 

“Closer to afternoon for those of us with normal hours.”

“Time’s a construct.” He has boxers on, and if he’s aware of their guests he doesn’t show it, scratching himself through the thin material. She turns to see what Enjolras’s reaction to her roommate might be, expecting disgust or, more likely, utter indifference. The man appears frozen in horror. “We still have that soup from last week?”

“Grantaire. You gonna greet our guests?”

“Hi Cosette,” he says, finally looking over at the couch. “And…Enjolras. Wow. Fancy seeing you here.” Grantaire’s expression remains dazed with sleep, but Éponine can see the telltale signs of mild panic being tamped down.

“What are you doing here?”

Grantaire looks around the room in muddled disbelief. He grabs an entire gallon of milk from the fridge before returning to his bedroom without a word. It might be the first time Éponine has ever truly seen the man speechless—though to be fair, this is also the dumbest question she’s ever heard escape Enjolras’s mouth. 

“He lives here,” Cosette eventually clarifies.

“Ah.” Enjolras stands up. “Well, this skirts a little too closely to ethical boundaries.”

“The ethical boundaries you’re also skirting by being totally smitten with one of your students?” Cosette responds automatically, tone unfazed with a hint of smile. 

“I’m not. But yes, those.” Enjolras hoists his messenger bag over his shoulder as he walks to the door. “I’ll be seeing both of you tomorrow?”

“Always,” promises Cosette. Éponine nods, trusting that if he cared about her answer he’d look back to verify. 

He doesn’t, and the door shuts behind Enjolras without ceremony. Less than a minute later Grantaire’s door clicks open. Éponine watches out of the corner of her eye as he falls over the sofa next to Cosette. 

“What the actual fuck,” he groans into his hands. “Why was my TA here?”

Éponine’s eyebrows raise to her hairline. “ _Enjolras_ is Hot TA?”

“Shut up.” There’s no heat behind the words, only open misery.

“Grantaire,” Cosette asks, sounding as amused as Éponine feels, “do you like Enjolras?”

“What are we, middle schoolers?”

“That means ‘yes,’” Éponine translates.

“Can we not?”

“Of course,” assures Cosette, and Éponine feels the woman’s hands resume their gentle weaving. “By chance, I don’t suppose you have any particular feelings on The Rights of Man?”

“Flawed and ridiculous.”

Éponine does her best to suppress the grin that rises in her at these absolute dumbasses. Behind her, Cosette starts humming something Éponine vaguely recognizes as a love song. She suspects that Grantaire recognizes it as well because Éponine’s hair falls to her shoulders in sync with the _thwap_ to her right, and Cosette breaks into giggles that make Éponine’s stomach flutter. 

 

Two hours later, Cosette has finally taken her leave. Grantaire and Éponine lay in equally unconventional and impolite positions across the sofa, limbs overlapping precariously.

“Oh fuck, she forgot you.”

Grantaire lifts his head from its awkward position against the coffee table. “Forgot me how?”

“Hair,” Éponine gestures. “She mentioned grand plans to build a warrior tribe from the ground up, but I guess she ran out of time.”

Grantaire is quiet enough to warrant a glance. His eyebrows are raised as he wordlessly watches her.

“What?”

He purses his lips, seeming to consider his words carefully before he speaks. “I think, if she had felt particularly inclined, Cosette could have made the time.”

Éponine makes a face. “What makes you say that?”

“Ép,” he says seriously, pushing himself upright and turning to lean again the sofa arm opposite her, “do you seriously think it takes two hours to do one hairstyle?”

Éponine squints at him. “Maybe?”

“You useless lesbian.” He shakes his head, chuckling. “She must have redone your hair at least four times.”

“So? Maybe she wasn’t happy with how the first three turned out.” Éponine stretches out on the couch, pointedly digging a foot into her roommate’s kidney. “And anyway, who’s calling whom ‘useless’? I’m not the one who has been _passively flirting with my TA all summer_.”

He grabs her foot, dislodging it and shifting their limbs. “Queer men do hook-ups, that’s different.”

“Oh-ho, and you’re looking for more than a hook-up with our dear Enjolras?” she teases.

Grantaire grabs one of the throw pillows from the floor, pulling it over his face and stifling either a groan or a frustrated shout. “I don’t know what I’m looking for,” he says eventually, sinking down in the seat and throwing his arms out haphazardly. “I’m not looking for anything. Our last class is in four weeks, I might not even see him again after. And before you say it, I’m not going to your stupid social justice club.” He shakes his head. “You can’t _encourage_ him, Ép, he’s too excitable.”

The thought of anyone referring to Enjolras as ‘excitable’ has laughter bursting forth from somewhere deep in Éponine’s stomach. 

“So what’s the gameplan then? What are you going to do?”

Grantaire blows a raspberry in response. “Fuckall. Pretty sure that if he cared in the least we’d be able to have a conversation that lasted more than a minute without one of us leaving the room or exceeding the recommended number of decibels for standard discussion.” He pulls his arms back into his chest with a dramatic flap, hugging the pillow from earlier to his chest. “Anyway, I’m his student, and I’d bet you anything that Enjolras is one of those squares who knows the staff handbook by heart.”

“So that’s it? You’re just gonna,” Éponine shrugs helplessly, “let it go?”

He tips his chin into his chest to look at her, and she feels her weak smile fall away. “You got any other suggestions?”

“Asking him out seems pretty standard.”

“Yeah? The way you’re asking Cosette out?”

“That—” Éponine starts, planting both hands to push herself upright and crisscrossing her legs, “is different?”

“How?”

“Only in every way that matters.” She rubs at her face, sighing. “You bomb, you never have to see him again. I bomb, I lose a friend and hairdresser. And she’s a very attentive hairdresser, R. I haven’t bothered you over hair in months.” 

“Praise be,” he flatly responds, sardonic smile shaping his face.

“Anyway,” she continues, “she hasn’t exactly given me any sort of indication that she’s into me. I don’t even know if she’s queer! I might be—” she can’t bring herself to say any of the words that come to mind “feeling? For some straight girl!”

She sees that Grantaire is biting back laughter. “You think…how long has—? And she’d just—?” Each aborted thought brings with it a new expression of amused disbelief. “Cosette is not straight,” he finally assures.

She determinedly stamps down the hope in her chest. “Well, good for womankind.”

“The _most_ useless lesbian,” he repeats.

Éponine realizes as the pillow is leaving her hand the tactical error that she has made: five minutes, three damp pillows, and a near-disaster involving a poorly-executed dodge and a full crockpot later, Éponine is forced to concede defeat from where she hangs over Grantaire’s shoulder. He parades her around the living room and kitchen for one last victory lap before she is finally thrown down to the sofa, Grantaire collapsing next to her. He rests his head on her shoulder, and she settles in against him. The man sighs.

“We’re the disaster gays internet memes talk about, aren’t we?”

“I’m functional-passing,” Éponine corrects before sighing. “But yeah, that’s us.”

 

-

 

By now, Éponine has realized that the fluttering in her stomach every time that she sees Cosette isn’t going away anytime soon and has begun to make peace with the fact. It sucks, of course—how could it not?—but Éponine contents herself with having such a brilliant, kind, dynamic person in her life.

Just this is enough.

It doesn’t feel like enough, though, when she sees Cosette’s fingers drumming nervously at the kitchen counter. Tuition for the fall semester is due soon, and the woman has yet to hear back from the sponsors of her primary scholarship. 

She hasn’t touched the chocolate chip pancakes in front of her, and the movie Grantaire was watching before he left for his final class of the summer might as well be off for all of the attention Cosette pays it. Attempts at conversation are abandoned midsentence with every renewed press of the refresh button, and Éponine feels worry ballooning inside of her for her…friend. Her good friend. Her good friend who she’d like to care for and love and assure every happiness and kindness and security for in life. Because they’re friends, and good friends feel that way about one another.

“Hey, Cosette,” she says, looking up from the spatula she’s just finished scrubbing. The woman doesn’t look up, and Éponine gently covers the agitated, drumming fingers with her own damp, pruny ones. “Cosette.”

Cosette startles at the touch, eyes wide when she looks at Éponine. “Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry, I was just—”

“No worries,” Éponine reassures her. “I was thinking: I’ve been looking at some hairstyles, and if you have some time on your hands I was wondering if you might want to try one.”

“When? Now?”

“I just finished the last of the dishes. I may end up eating a pancake while you work, but…”

“That…” Cosette trails off, but this time her phone is on the counter between them, and the woman looks up at her again. “Sounds good. Perfect, actually. I’ll get my things.”

She goes to get her kit from the bathroom, because they’re there now, she casually stores hairstyling materials in Éponine’s bathroom for hair-related eventualities. It’s on the brink of domesticity, and Éponine busies herself quickly reviewing the image search results on her phone for ‘complicated hairstyles’ to avoid investing any more time into that line of thought.

Éponine shows Cosette the style she’s arbitrarily chosen when the latter re-enters the room, shrugging in a way she hopes looks way more apologetic than it is. Cosette studies the image for nearly a full minute, and Éponine is beginning to worry that she might actually have chosen something too difficult for the hair aficionado before the curly-haired person nods once, determination writ into her features, and settles into her normal seat.

The woman seems to take a little longer than usual carding through Éponine’s hair with various implements, and the latter thinks she hears Cosette’s breathing deepen and slow as the woman falls into a proper rhythm. The silence stretches, and Éponine lets it. Another day she might try to talk, bait Cosette into a running commentary or suggest that they actually pay any mind to the antics of Seth Rogan and Jonah Hill, but today she reaches for the remote, putting an effective end to the onscreen antics. 

When the humming finally begins, it’s a nervous sort of rhythm, swinging back and forth before dissipating into a bittersweet melody. Something in her chest clutches as the final notes ring out, and even as Cosette moves onto lighter, more buoyant tunes the first song lingers in the Éponine’s subconscious.

 

By the time Cosette finishes over an hour later, she has several photos of the elaborate hairstyle up on her Instagram and the email she’s been waiting so impatiently for all morning. Éponine walks her the short distance to the door, hands tucked into her back pockets.

“So classes are starting up again.” Cosette looks down, and Éponine can hear the scuffing of the woman’s boots.

“So they are.”

“I’m sure we’ll both be pretty busy, then.” 

Right: Éponine’s evening shifts pick up again with the start of the term. Between those and classes, meetings are out of the question, as will most social gatherings. “I guess we will be.”

“Well, I. I hope we still get to see each other around,” Cosette says with an air of finality, smiling tightly.

Éponine doesn’t know what to say to that, so she pulls Cosette in and lets the ache in her chest grow. Cosette makes no move to push away, and they stand there holding one another for what could be minutes or hours. 

Éponine feels Cosette’s back straightening under her hands and allows the woman to pull back. A stray curl has escaped from behind Cosette’s ear, and Éponine reaches up to tuck it back in place, fingertips grazing against the woman’s high cheekbones. This close, Eponine can detect the lightest dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose where the summer sun has kissed, almost invisible against the darkness of her skin. Eponine's vision drops briefly to full, dark lips parted just enough to show a glimpse of the white behind them. With a sharp intake of breath, Eponine's eyes fly up to meet Cosette's expectant ones, the rich darkness swallowing her up. Her mind goes entirely blank as they stare at one another, bodies still pressed together from waist to knees.

“Cosette, I—” 

The door swings open before they can find out where her brain’s predictive text would have taken her. Éponine curls protectively over Cosette, a hand flying up to cradle the woman’s head and shield it from the worst of the impact. She drags them both back to avoid a second assault.

“Shit, what the hell?” Grantaire swears as the door finally opens to its full range.

Éponine glares, crossing her arms over her chest. “Do you fucking mind?”

“I am sorry that I hurt you,” Grantaire begins, “but also, in the future, maybe consider not setting up camp in front of an in-swinging door?” He shakes his head as he says it, distractedly missing the key hook three times and heading toward the kitchen without looking at either of them.

“Did something happen?” Cosette asks. Éponine almost wants to scold the girl for accepting Grantaire’s half-apology so readily, but she’s also interested.

“Your meeting things. What day are those?”

Éponine cocks an eyebrow. “Thursday.”

“Not Monday?”

“Definitely not,” Cosette confirms.

Grantaire is quiet as he fills the kettle with water. “I think I may have a date.”

Cosette squeals in delight, and Éponine’s eyebrows raise as she smirks. 

“Congrats, Kid.”

Grantaire rolls his eyes at Éponine, still flushed. “That’s hardly any way to speak to your elders.”

“How about people who have just assaulted their friends with doors?”

“That is _one_ way to speak to your elders.” He finally properly looks up, regarding Cosette with an odd look. “Heading out?”

She laughs uncomfortably. “I got my email, so…paperwork.”

For all of his earlier nervous energy, Grantaire manages a sincere smile. “Congrats! Surprising no one, of course—we knew you could do it.”

Éponine nods in assent. “Doesn’t make us any less proud.”

“Oh hell no,” Grantaire agrees. “Catch me at my overnight shift tonight telling the returning uni kids all about my real-life superhero friend Cosette, future journalist and present-day hard-worker extraordinaire.”

“He’ll do it. You know he will.”

“I do,” smiles Cosette. “Thank you both so much for letting me wait here today. And for being good friends every day.”

Friends. Yup. That’s them. “Anytime.”

“You know it,” Grantaire adds.

Cosette waves to both of them before making her exit. When the door finally clicks shut, Éponine flops onto the couch, pulling one of their numerous throw pillows to her chest and willing it to stop hurting.

“Hey Ép,” Grantaire says as he sits down, placing two mugs of tea gingerly on the coffee table as he does, “not to be daft, but did I interrupt something when I came in?”

She looks at the closed door across from them, stiffening the corners of her mouth as she answers. “No. I don’t think you did.” 

 

-

 

Éponine stands in the doorway fighting the urge to fidget. She doesn’t fidget, hasn’t in years, yet here she stands, forcing a thumb through her beltloop and trying to remember how to count backwards in German so she doesn’t abandon the door.

“Éponine!” Cosette exclaims, breathless. She must have run.

Éponine launches into the lines she rehearsed on the walk over before she can talk herself out of it. “So uh. I’ve been researching black hairstyles, and I’ve found a couple I think I want to try out, and I was wondering, if you’re interested—I mean, if you want—”

“I’ll get my pick,” the woman smiles, opening the door wider in invitation. “You can go ahead and make yourself comfortable on the sofa.”

Éponine follows the woman in, trying not to make her shock too apparent. She’s been to Cosette and her father’s townhouse before, but tonight everything feels heightened. 

By the time Cosette comes back down the stairs, Éponine has laid out her own (significantly less extensive) kit on the Fauchelevent coffee table and is running through the exact steps she needs to go through for the basic style she’s chosen for tonight.

“You’re sure this is okay?”

Cosette smiles, offering the pick to Éponine. “Yes.”

“Even if I completely fuck this up? Because I might fuck this up. Your hair might be destroyed for forever. You might need to, like, shave your head after this. It could be a total dumpster-fire.”

“Fortunately for both of us,” Cosette says, taking her place on the floor in front of Éponine, “I happen to know that I look _incredible_ with a shaved head.”

“Good to know.” She pauses, allowing her thoughts to settle. “Good to know.” Éponine takes a steadying breath before pulling the pick through Cosette’s curls. They’re soft, so much softer than Éponine would have imagined, and as she divides off sections she finds her anxiety over hopelessly tangling the hair fading as she falls into a rhythm.

Éponine takes another deep breath, mentally scrambling for the song she’d so carefully selected for exact this moment. 

_Wise men say,_ she thinks as she hums, _only fools rush in._ She tries not to overthink that Cosette’s shoulders have gone rigid as she continues her steady corn row. _But I can’t help falling in love with you._

She swallows hard, wishing the rush of blood in her ears would quiet down long enough to hear literally anything else. _Shall I stay? Would it be a sin, if—_

Cosette’s hand flies back, gripping at Éponine’s wrist. Éponine stops breathing. She feels dizzy, she’s gonna be sick, Grantaire was wrong, everything is wrong, and—

And Cosette is intertwining their fingers over her shoulder and leaning back into the sofa between Éponine’s knees. Her head has tipped back enough for Éponine to see a small, satisfied smile playing at the woman’s lips, and suddenly the air is moving easily in and out of her lungs again, and she’s aware of how quiet the room is, and Goddammit she’s going to have to restart this braid (but she doesn’t really mind).

She does need to extricate her hand, though, and does so with great reluctance. She nudges her knees to give Cosette’s shoulders a quick squeeze and grabs the pick from the spot next to her on the sofa to pull out the part she will need to redo.

_I can’t help falling in love with you._

 

-

 

 **Dr. Princess Fairy Queen MD** (@MoreofaLark)  
<3 Applications are now closed. <3 ;) ;) ;)

> **Ép Off** (@ÉptimusPrime)  
>hi yeah if any pretty girls want to come play w my hair 2-5 x/week for the rest of my life i am now accepting applications

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooooo fun fact: when I first started brainstorming this fic, I was talking it out with [PieceOfCait](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PieceOfCait/pseuds/PieceOfCait) and debating:  
> -the time that Éponine did Cosette's hair be at Cosette's wedding to Marius OR  
> -the last time Cosette does Éponine's hair be Cosette's PoV at Éponine's wedding to someone else
> 
> Apparently I never actually told PieceOfCait otherwise, and until the very end of the fic she was convinced that she was in for heartbreak. I'm still absolutely _cackling_ over it, but I am sorry. <3
> 
> ANYWAY, the songs didn't actually have any lyrical bearing on the piece at all, but here they are anyway:  
> -["Russian Lullaby"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e_1nagBrG54) (first time Cosette's over)  
> -["Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6bWyhj7siEY) (making chicken stock)  
> -["Drink With Me - Music Box"](https://decayingliberty.tumblr.com/post/170579105991/alternative-title-feuillys-lullaby-i-always) (Éponine's bad day)  
> -["C'est ça l'Amour"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U1ExXZ4-R5g) (Enjolras and Cosette chill)  
> -["Perfect for You" (Next to Normal)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ICAfH5I8ttk) (Cosette is anxious)  
> -["Can't Help Falling in Love With You"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=npwHNcGqueE) (Éponine does Cosette's hair) (yes it's a cover, bite me)
> 
> Next chapter's just a scene that got cut for storytelling reasons. 
> 
> Thoughts? Feelings? Feedback? Worship and praise? Prayers for my mortal soul? (I'm told I'm in need of those.)  
> Comment below or reach out at my [tumblr](http://shitpostingfromthebarricade.tumblr.com)!


	2. Deleted Scene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deleted scene: Les Amis volunteer to repaint some rooms in a retirement home

Enjolras must have chosen the hottest day of the century to paint houses.

A distant part of her brain reminds her that this was someone else’s project—Feuilly?—and that Enjolras merely helped facilitate, but for now she’s just going to go on blaming Enjolras, because sometimes the world feels a little more manageable knowing Enjolras is available as a scapegoat for every given shitty situation.

Blaming Enjolras doesn’t reduce the temperature of the absolutely stifling residential home, though: even with all of the windows open and two box fans working their little circuit boards out, Éponine’s tee was sweat through within the first hour, and she’s beginning to debate the merits of stripping down to her lobster-print boxer shorts and sports bra.

In any other company, she might have done it long ago, but Jehan was assigned to Enjolras’s room (and is hopefully horrifying the man with their exceptional comfort with their body), Bahorel is with Courfeyrac, Combeferre is with Feuilly, and Éponine is with Cosette. 

Either Cosette’s giant overalls and tank top are much more refreshing than they appear on first inspection, or her tiny, angelic body missed the memo that it is _absolutely sweltering_ , because the woman somehow only looks more herself—which is to say, her smile is even brighter, her skin glows, and she has managed to keep up an exhausting level of energy over the past three hours . Éponine is pretty sure that this is what a real-life human glitch looks like, and she will personally destroy anyone who takes the liberty of informing the heavens of their mistake.

Éponine means to swipe her latest layer of sweat from her face when she feels it. _Fucking hell._ She peels the strand of hair from her face, realizing too late that her hairtie is utterly failing in its duty of keeping her hair up and off her neck. She lets out a grunt in irritation before attempting to tie it up again anyway, enjoying the short-lived bliss of fresh air hitting the back of her neck.

The fourth time in under an hour that she’s tying her hair up, she realizes too late that her hand is coated in light blue paint. She forgets herself, loosing several extremely colorful swears before she notices the giggling from the other side of the room, a realization that is of course met with the most profoundly unladylike curse yet. “That is to say, sorry.”

Cosette is close with Grantaire, so realistically there’s no reason to be so concerned with the woman’s reaction to the foul language, but she still doesn’t expect the barely-contained mirth she sees on the other woman’s face. “Whatever brought it on must be quite the predicament. That is to say,” she continues, whispering conspiratorially, “I forgive you.”

Éponine’s almost able to forget about the problem at hand in that grin, but unfortunately Enjolras is still The Worst, it is still hot, and she still has a very real issue. “But actually, this does suck.” She swings her head around, displaying the fresh swipes of color running through her hair.

“I see.” Cosette’s footsteps draw closer, and Éponine feels gentle fingers running through the hair.

“Oh God, don’t, I’m all gross and sweaty.”

Cosette scoffs around a grin. “I’ve been in this room with you the same three sweltering hours, you ain’t special.” Éponine feels herself smirking—Sassy Cosette is Cosette in her most powerful form, and it’s as delightful to witness as it is rare. “I see,” the woman repeats once more.

A cool hand grips Éponine’s wrist suddenly, pulling her into the hallway. 

“Where are we going?” she asks, curious but not so concerned as to stop the other woman. They’re walking out the front doors now; Éponine thinks that it should feel hotter than indoors, but the open air is refreshing after the stifling, stale air of the home. 

“Well first,” Cosette lists, “we’re going to have to rinse the paint from your hair, preferably outdoors. After we get that done, we can pick a style that will be more compatible with the heat—honestly, Éponine, who decided a low ponytail was the right choice for peak summer heat?”

Éponine’s overstretched hairband, that’s who. Éponine’s about to say as much, but she catches the warm glint of the other woman’s eye, and the jibe withers on her lips. She barely notices when Cosette finally stops, turning over two buckets in front of a hose and sitting atop one. The woman pats the other surface, and Éponine follows the instruction.

“I hope this shirt isn’t important to you,” Cosette warns.

“Only the finest heirlooms for painting the facilities of the geriatric.”

“I suspected as much.” Cosette’s smile is audible as she speaks, and Éponine feels content enough in having elicited the response that she is left utterly unprepared for the spurt of icy water that runs down her neck and back.

“Titty fuckers in clamps, Cosette!” she sputters. “That’s fucking freezing!!”

The cackle behind her makes Éponine suspect that the other woman knew this already. “Are you complaining?”

“ _Yes._ ”

“Hmph,” the woman shrugs good-naturedly, returning to her ministrations. 

Despite what Éponine had said, after the initial shock the water does feel good, as do Cosette’s hands running gently through her hair.

“I don’t suppose it’d be too much to expect you to have a brush?”

It’s not. “In my bag.”

Cosette splashes some water into Éponine’s face with slightly more warning than the initial hit, then cups some in her hand to run over her own face. The neckline of her tank top is soaked after, and Éponine drags her eyes from the droplets that run over her friend’s collarbones to head back into the building.

There are no chairs in the room, so Éponine must satisfy herself with brushing her wet hair out cross-legged on the newspaper-covered floor of the room. The wet state of the hair makes it an overly nuanced procedure, but to Éponine’s satisfaction she feels no clumps of paint, nor does any color come away in her brush between passes.

“I think that’ll be fine,” Cosette says at last. Éponine passed the brush and tips her head back, allowing the hair to be gathered. “Your hairband broke?” the woman guesses.

“Outlived its useful lifespan, I’m afraid,” Éponine confirms, holding the limp loop up.

“I think we may be able to figure something out.”

They sit in companionable silence as Cosette pulls the brush through several more times, making thinking sounds as she pulls large sections of hair this way and that before seeming to decide on a course of action.

Cosette isn’t finished yet when their door opens, revealing a shirtless Courfeyrac whose salmon shorts are rolled up well-past the pale tanline of his thighs. “They’re doing hair,” he calls to someone down the hall. “Bahorel, why the hell didn’t we do each others’ hair?”

Enjolras’s voice rings out. “Why are they doing hair? We’re supposed to be working!”

“Enjolras,” Jehan’s voice scolds, and suddenly they're in the doorway pushing their way past Courfeyrac, naked as the day they were born. “Éponine has long, gorgeous hair that requires a certain level of care and maintenance to allow her to do optimal levels of work.”

“Enjolras’s hair is long and gorgeous,” Feuilly argues from elsewhere in the building.

“Except that he’s satisfied to tie it back with hideous rainbow tie-dye bandanas with pictures of aliens on them,” Courfeyrac rebuts.

“That bandana is a treasure,” Jehan insists. Éponine watches as they pick up one of the abandoned rollers and resumes her and Cosette’s long-forgotten work. 

Bahorel appears in the doorway, arms crossed. “I, for one, agree with Jehan: it might be my favorite thing in Enjolras’s entire wardrobe.”

Courfeyrac scoffs. “The man has a capsule wardrobe, I can’t believe he owns it at all.”

Through the banter, Cosette’s hands continue to work Éponine’s hair, and she can make out the undercurrents of bouncy tune being hummed by the other woman. 

Yep, Enjolras is the absolute worst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love this scene and a lot of elements in it, but I decided after I finished the fic that I wanted all of with (with one noteworthy exception) to take place in Ep and R's apartment. This scene was ultimately replaced by the soup scene.
> 
> The song that Cosette hums here is ["Here Comes the Sun."](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H3OhtUtqY7Q)
> 
> Feel free to comment here or reach out to me at my [tumblr](http://shitpostingfromthebarricade.tumblr.com). :)


End file.
